The Highest Forms of Art
by Penmaron
Summary: There is the lightest dusting of freckles on the curve of Aziraphale's shoulder, pale and practically unnoticeable, and Crowley cannot help but stare.


Author's Note:

This is a very loose sequel to 'As Upon a Canvas', but completely understandable when read separately.

Rated 'T' due to quite vague sexual content, and ridiculous amounts of fluff.

Disclaimer: Yeah, still not mine.

* * *

There is the lightest dusting of freckles on the curve of Aziraphale's shoulder, pale and practically unnoticeable, and Crowley cannot help but stare. He thinks that the angel is asleep – his breaths are deep and even, and the demon can feel his heart beating slowly underneath his palm – and so this gives him leave to look, without dealing with Aziraphale's unfairly attractive stuttering and blushing and turning away.

The angel doesn't like the way he looks – it's obvious. He'd rather be dramatic, and he'd rather be exotic – near-untouchable – with sharp limbs and deep black hair, like Crowley himself. He'd rather have cheekbones which can cut and a spine which ripples and eyes which are like the melting Sun, dangerous and irresistible, all at once.

He says so with every breath he takes. He whispers things into the crook of Crowley's elbow, and the tips of his fingers, and the delicate crease of his thigh, and although it's marvellous – everything he's ever wished for – it becomes startlingly clear.

Aziraphale doesn't understand, really, the importance of a freckle.

The dawn is just beginning to peek through the white linen of his curtains, and it stains Aziraphale's skin a honey-like gold. It's the beginning of a new day, possibly filled with puttering about the angel's shop, filling in the crossword with self-assured capital letters, and endless cups of tea. It's another Sunday too, so he might also go to Church, which Crowley doesn't mind. He always returns, smelling of incense and a priest's Earl Grey, and it's quite pleasant when mixed with the scent of warm jumpers and the angel himself.

He also smiles more, on a Sunday. Crowley doesn't like to romanticise – he's seen too much, now, and it would be silly for a demon, anyway – but it really does make his entire flat light up, just a bit. He would swear that his houseplants perk up, as well, but that's just because Aziraphale likes to flatter them, the vain sods.

He decides, as he absently trails a finger down the perfect curve of Aziraphale's neck, that he'll buy the angel a houseplant sometime. He doesn't know where they'll put it, between the Bibles and darkness and dust, but they'll find a place. They always do.

Aziraphale's breaths become shallow, and as he wakes, he sighs deeply and presses his face into the pillow. "Crowley," he says, his words low and running together with sleep, "why're you awake?"

He doesn't quite know, exactly, and he kisses a sun-warmed shoulder in lieu of an answer. Aziraphale turns, and the sunlight streams across his face, hiding nothing. Each of his light, delicate eyelashes becomes perfectly defined, and his laugh lines deepen, creating slight shadows upon his skin.

Each of his time-whitened scars – the track of a bullet lightly tracing up the inside of his wrist, the remnants of an iron and explosive battle visible upon his eyebrow and his collarbone – each of these can be seen, now; they tell the story of millions, the story of humanity's tragedies, humanity's joys, and humanity's never-ceasing struggles for survival.

The angel hates them; he loathes the fact that violence has made visible marks upon him, sharp and bright, entirely messy and random and all too human for comfort. They're a part of him, as much of a part as the tartan, and the freckles, and the eyes which sing of clear summer days and picnics with scones and clotted cream – and so Crowley loves them. They're worth being seen, being illuminated by the sun – they're worth every part of the over-warm press of the angel's body against his own, because they belong to Aziraphale, irrevocably.

Everything about – _this_, with Aziraphale – is worth it. Not that it's hard, exactly. They hardly ever argue, and it's always quick, when they do. There are snappish words and absent gestures, and the ever-present excuse of tiredness and over-work. Aziraphale can always forgive, and Crowley can never hold anything against him.

And it works.

"G'morning," the angel mumbles, squinting against the sunlight. He's never been one to wake gracefully – he's more of the shuffling-to-the-teapot-in-his-threadbare-slippers-yawning-as-he-goes sort of person. Crowley has the pet notion that that's why he doesn't normally sleep, preferring to endure the demon's alternating sprawling and limpet-like qualities rather than the grumpiness of the newly-woken – but he'd never say a word.

"Yes," he says. One of Aziraphale's hands is lying on his hip, and the other is reaching slowly to slip between his cheek and the sleep-warmed pillow, so how could it not be? They kiss, the angel's lips still a little lax, and his eyelids drooping. He is lit by the dawn, the pink brushing against his hair and his mouth and his honey-tinted skin, and Crowley could not even dream of how this moment could ever be improved upon. "Do you – I could –"

Aziraphale smiles, blissful and unhurried, and says, "_Yes_."

Crowley kisses him slowly, revelling in the gentle slide of his hand into soft curls as he shifts closer, parting Aziraphale's legs with a brush of a knee. He settles there, allowing his eyes to drift shut at the sensation, and resting his forehead against the angel's before kissing him again. He's surrounded by pure Aziraphale, and it's too much to bear, almost. This will tear him apart, one day; he knows it, because demons cannot _deal_ with love like this. This is an angel's job, so why –?

He begins to rock, every inch of skin touching the angel's, and the thoughts slip away like petals upon a warm, fragrant wind. Aziraphale is whispering things again, and he shivers as he listens, because he can't verbalise this, he just _can't_, and every attempt seems to be more inadequate than the last.

"Crowley," he gasps, and the demon kisses the air from his lips, because there is nothing more he can do, now. "Perfect, how can you – how do you –" His hand is now cupping Crowley's neck, and a light flush is gracing his cheeks, and he is whispering words like "undeniable" and "flawless" and "my dear", between kisses which are so pure, so irreversibly good and angelic and _Aziraphale_ that Crowley cannot breathe.

"Angel," he says, eyes squeezing tight against the cradle of words, the irreversible back-forth of their bodies, and the sharpening, coalescing light of a dawn coming to an end. "You are – oh – _indescribable_."

And everything is set right, for today, as an angel and a demon fall apart in each other's arms, and, somehow, are put back together once more.

* * *

Within minutes, the dawn has finished.

"It's going to be a beautiful day, my dear," Aziraphale says softly, lifting his head from the demon's chest to watch the pure London morning.

"Yes," Crowley says, and he thinks of tartan scarves and the home-like smell of tea. "It will."

_Finis_

* * *

Title is taken from:

_Vermont's a place where barns come painted,_

_Red as a strong man's heart,_

_Where stout carts and stout boys in freckles,_

_Are highest forms of art._

By Robert Tristram Coffin

* * *

Thank you to Llaregyb, my beta extraordinaire, and to you, for taking the time to read this. :-)

(Also, just a reminder that reviews are small, glittering pieces of pure love, which are cherished, revered, and given a special little place in any writer's heart.)


End file.
